Welcome to Tinder. Let’s not pretend we’re not all using it. Or know people who are using it. Or wish we were using it. Or wish we weren’t using it.
I regularly switch between despair, bemusement and concern with regard to Tinder. Despair as I search my mind for the moment I gave up trying to meet men in any conventional way (answer: when I hit 25 and ran out of fucks to give/when my usual method of alcohol and shit yarns was proving futile). Bemusement as I wonder if the first kind of approach is successful – if I had replied “oh my god, A BLOW JOB? I thought you wanted to go for a drink or something weird, had I known a blow job was on the cards I would have eschewed those movies with a firm hand”, would he have been ecstatic or confused? Speaking from my knowledge of him as someone who called me a whore for not giving him a blow job, I’m going to place my bets on confused. And concern for De, because while I’m very happy for him that he is a bad boy with good lips, I think his space bar might be broken.
I am under no illusions that I will meet the love of my life on what is at heart, a casual sex app. It’s just that, if I was ever to sleep with someone I’d never met but for a few hastily typed words on a screen, it would take a lot more than “Hey Bonnie, can I be your Clyde?” to make it happen. (The answer, by the way, is no. Unless your name actually is Clyde. In which case, my deepest sympathies)